


Now wait, wait, wait for me

by CoeurDeFaux



Series: It's you, it's you, it's you [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Body Dysmorphia, Crying, Depression, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Misunderstandings, Running, Sad, Self-Hatred, Sleepy Cuddles, Steve Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers Feels, Suicidal Thoughts, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:48:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3540179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoeurDeFaux/pseuds/CoeurDeFaux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Steve Rogers will ignore it all, he will run until he can't breathe, until the tears blur and everything he is and has become falls away and he reverts back to that barely five foot, one leg in the grave, piece of nothing he started as.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now wait, wait, wait for me

**Author's Note:**

> This is random and just hit me out of nowhere. Forgive me!
> 
> All mistakes are mine! Sorry if this seems OOC-ish. It's 4:35 AM and I am so tired OTL
> 
> Enjoy~

Steve runs.

The sun is barely a thought over the horizon, stars still grasping for more time and crickets still singing at the moon fading away. There's a faint whisper of skyscraper tinged noise and the lights never truly sleep in this city, Steve just thinks it's restless like he is. He thinks maybe it might even be tired like he is, groaning bones disguised as vibrating vitality and never ending stamina. If only people could feel what he does, to the extent that he does, then they would know how exhausting it is to be filled with so much life. Energy of a thousand, crammed into a once stick thin body barely clinging to the breath of life he had in himself, constantly becoming more familiar with death's doorstep, could practically recite the many cracks laid into the walkway.

Steve runs because he can't think of anything else.

He wants for his limbs to drop like lead, for all his capabilities to be snuffed out and for him to fall, fall, fall. Then maybe he'll finally close his eyes and sleep, see nothing but black and carve a safe place in the darkness of his subconscious, a place that will embrace Steve Rogers and ask nothing. He knows he has no right to wish for a break, for a minute to catch his breath and deal with everything done to him, done for him, asked of him, sacrificed for him and by him.  So many people have given him their literal everything, putting their faith in him, a dumb kid from Brooklyn who had enough self preservation skills to offer himself up as a test subject and made into the lab experiment of the century, a feat still being attempted all over the world, all to breed people like Steve, making soldiers that will know no other purpose then to _serve_.

Steve runs because no one really needs him anymore.

He's an Avenger, a position that could be filled with hundreds of other blessed and tragic beings that can don a mask and cape. Other people with more drive and compassion, a better cause and a stronger will to live. He's a friend and comrade, but those come and go like the seasons, vanishing in the blink of an eye, wind whistling and train clanking along the tracks. Those he cares about, who might've seen all the ways he might be crumbling, are either dead or forgetting the scrawny boy once known as Steve Rogers.

Steve runs because he is scared, _terrified_ , that everyone who knew him when he was nothing is now _gone_.

Peggy barely remembers him on a good day, those sharp brown eyes still recognizing him on some level but other than the glimpse of life here and there she lies frail and losing her grasp on this world. Steve is grateful to have known her, loved her, and been given someone who could know him by a conversation, because their struggles were so similar it almost hurt. But she is losing this fight and Steve Rogers is no longer someone she knows, just a fuzzy memory that might slither by in the background, a familiar set of blue eyes and crooked smile but it's gone before he can even find solace in her arms.

The Avengers are different, in the fact that they were thrown into the fray together, having to lean on what they could see, taking and utilizing the physical aspects of everyone's abilities and using them to fight and defend a world that couldn't even try to. He respects them, can easily admire Thor's strength and intelligence, Barton's tenacity and skill, Bruce's control and will to move forward, even Tony's buried sense of selflessness and subtle need to protect everyone without it being connected back to him.

Natasha and Sam have grown on him even more. Sam who shares the taste of losing someone so close, Natasha knowing exactly what it means to be seen only to the point of what you can do, emotions and humanity taken out of the equation completely. But even then Steve can't rely, can't open up because they know what he's given them and Steve only ever gives the bare minimum when it comes to insight on himself.

The Steve they know is reckless, driven, always standing up for what is right and defending those who can't defend themselves. They know he is honest, prefers to be the majority of the time, that he has no problem breaking rules and going AWOL if it's in the best interest for the greater good. They know Steve is stubborn and won't ever back down from a fight, reasons various but end result still the same, that he _won't_ give up.

And that's not _wrong_ , that is a good portion of Steve, but it's the things Steve wishes they could see, without even asking.

That he isn't as brave as everyone thinks, that a lot of the time he is _scared_ , and reeling from the endless string of shock and betrayal. The old ghost trudged up, the endless bloodshed, whether for him or in his place. He _hates_ what he sees in the mirror, days he wishes he could peel off his skin but he knows it would only heal, forcing him back into a flawless prison, devoid of bars that anyone could notice.

And then there's Bucky.

Coming back bit by bit, but slowly wanting nothing to do with him. It was like a knife between his ribs at first, like a bullet to every soft part of Steve that could bleed and be left painting the floor in red, but he didn't bat a lash on the outside. Everyone around him was watching, waiting for him to explode or collapse, become so disheartened, to finally give up and lose his standing even though he's never had his feet on solid ground since he woke up from a chilly grave seventy years into the future.

They thought Bucky was the last straw, another precious soul ripped from Steve, _because of Steve_ , and turned into a ghost, brainwashed and frothing at the mouth when given anything besides a knife and a task at the beginning. He's gotten better but has decided from the start that Steve, whether remembering the past or not, is not worth getting to know or even trying to rekindle any sort of friendship with.

And Steve?

Steve just doesn't even try anymore.

Steve Rogers was known to never back down from a fight but lately, he can't even manage to try and block any blow that comes his way. His body will heal, his emotions will always continue to feel too much, make him want to scream and cry, his mind will always tell him to persevere, always a fight somewhere that needs someone to take the reigns and lead.

And Steve Rogers will ignore it all, he will run until he can't breathe, until the tears blur and everything he is and has become falls away and he reverts back to that barely five foot, one leg in the grave, piece of nothing he started as.

Until he can't feel or think, until the world turns into only the wind rushing by and the colors blur into a single palette.

Until his legs turn to dust and even then he will _run_ , he will pound the pavement like a drummer sounding an army for war.

Steve runs because he never could before, because he couldn't if he tried and once you start running the world will never let you _stop_. But that's the catch, the defining moment, because in this bright new century full of fresh pain and dirtied hands and screams hidden under aliases and never ending shadows fighting shadows, there is no one chasing Steve.

Everyone is chasing Captain America, whether to get a quick rush of orders, to kill and be rid of an obstacle in their quest to rule the country or the world, or even just to snap a picture of him. They all chase the shield, the uniform, the star spangled man with a plan.

But no one chases after a blonde head of hair to insist he take it easy, no one barks out in an accent what an idiot he is and that they can help him do his stupid plan a thousand times better, there isn't anyone following him and watching his six round the clock.

He has the shield though.

The shield representing so many, kind eyes behind spectacles, howling laughter and roaring songs, searing bullets wrapped in red dresses and cheese and bread complimented with a witty smile.

And a face, a face who has changed, aged and grown but was always _there_ despite where he now was or what body he was in.

He's not fooling anyone but himself, he knows, but no one will call him out on it and even if they _did_ , he wouldn't listen.

Because Steve Rogers runs more than people think, runs further and further away because the world has already swallowed up everything he loves, taken all the smiles and laughter of those he held dear, ripping his memory from anyone who might have even the slightest inkling of the whimpering ball of pathetic flesh underneath the brick wall of a body, the bluster and bright colors.

No one sees Steve Rogers cry because they aren't fast enough to catch it, won't ever hear it, and damn sure won't be told when those blue eyes are unguarded, looking shattered and soulless, whispering for death that no longer visits and probably won't for a longer time than he can bring himself to ponder.

This body, this weapon he now wears as his flesh, is a gift that he should be grateful for and at one point he was. But there was always the sensation of wrong, of bile whenever he saw his reflection, flinching from the sudden fervent looks and wondering hands. All his life he wanted to be recognized, was more than fine in his sack of bones and barely beating heart as long as he was heard, but then when given this specimen of human muscle, this supposed perfection and peak of human performance, he can barely manage to function.

If he treats his body like an object, he's fine. It needs to be tuned, updated and cleaned. But the moment he tries to think of it as his, his vision blurs. The corded muscles that should make him look on in fascination make him feel horrified, the broadness of his shoulders make him want to hunch and never stand straight again. He sees his chiseled jaw and neck and has to refrain from cracking the mirror. Steve knows he has no right to hate this gift, this blessing he _volunteered_ for, but he does and no one would ever believe him when he says he is disgusted by it. Can barely treat it with any sort of gentleness that people usually reserve for themselves, but Steve keeps to a more clinical point of view, desperately trying not to be bothered by it and thankfully he's gotten better at just ignoring his sculpted physique that feels like a suit he can never take off.

He falls.

He trips over something that shouldn't have the power to take down a super soldier whose seen wars and enough blood to drown the world in, but the gaping crack in the walkway sends him slightly rolling off to the side, leaving him gasping for breath on a small hill. He sucks in air like a mad man, lungs burning so bad it feels like he might start wheezing any minute, going blue in the face and seeing stars but he only sees the tree with it's dying leaves above. He feels the soft wisp of the grass all around him, whispering past his calves and arms, making him shiver.

He finally notices the sun painting the early morning a dizzying purple and pink, slowly gaining momentum.

Steve simply lays there in the grassy hill, breath coming back to him in a snap, making him want to yell and wish for his lungs that barely handled a gasp of real fresh air properly.

He stares up at the sky, listening to everything that floats into his ears, thankful to have run so far from the usual ear busting noise of the city that once held his whole world, now barely keeping him tethered to the present.

He lets his eyes slip shut and doesn't think at all.

Wonders maybe if he opens his eyes again he'll be in another room, finding out he has slept again through more wars, more loved ones growing old and leaving him behind, like a relic of the past.

Steve Rogers wonders if that's all he'll ever be, all that will be given to him, all he can wish for.

He wonders if maybe someone out there knows mercy and will take him out of this living hell, if only for a second, he entertains the notion before sighing softly, like a dead man's last words.

That's what he is though, a dead man summoned to fight for a country he must keep dying for, must watch other people continually die for, all in the name of justice, the greater good.

Sometimes Steve wonders if maybe, just maybe, that he might not have a red face seared underneath his own, but what he's doing, what he's inspiring others to do, are they any different than those he fights?

Just more people dying, more people ripped from one another, a never ending fight for power and control.

What makes him so virtuous? What makes him such an exception to the rule? What makes him so _special?_  

He once said, snidely and with his usual sarcasm heavy in his voice: _Nothing, I'm just a kid from Brooklyn._

But he never noticed how much those words ring true.

Absolutely nothing makes hims special. Sure, he might be a little more gung-ho, have a stronger moral compass than some, or even that his ability to never give up might be attractive traits but it's nothing that you can't find in _thousands_ of other people.

Steve stares at the sky, clouds drifting by lazily, bloated with precipitation and sky shifting slowly into a cloudy gray.

He really isn't anything, and he wonders why he's the only one who sees it.

Maybe that's why he rips himself apart, breaking himself down when no one else can, becoming his own worst nightmare, distorting his eyes and making him see a monster in his reflection.

A slight breeze picks up the wetness of the air and the tang of coming rain, and Steve just continues to stare up, motionless and not willing to move out of the fire.

The rain comes down softly, sprinkling him lightly and almost _sympathetically_.

Steve can't even manage to be angry with it.

He just continues to watch the endless blots of varying hues of gray, scaling from a light white wash to an unforgiving steel.

"You should come back to the tower, you'll get sick."

Steve doesn't twitch, doesn't acknowledge his heart crying out or his eyes feeling heavy all of a sudden.

"Tell Natasha or Sam that I can't get sick so they should stop worrying." He rattles off quietly, not noticing how subdued he sounds, like a man whose been defeated and is waiting to be dragged into the ground.

"They didn't send me."

Steve just continues to be drenched, rain having picked up and turned into fatter drops, rolling easily over his body and weighing him down even more so. He loves the rain, has found a new appreciation for it's melancholy scheme of shades, the comforting and relieving feeling of being soaked to the bone.

"Oh." Steve says, for lack of a better answer, heart still crying and reaching out but Steve just laughs inwardly.

Sometimes he just never learns.

He hears soggy steps being taken over to him, before he knows it a scrunched face and a bright blue umbrella is being held over his head.

"Is it so shocking that I decided to come and get you?" It's said with emotion, growled low and gravelly, a familiar beast but with a different set of teeth and Steve would weep if he could.

He shifts his eyes ever so slightly higher, meeting ice blue that once made his heart want to beat, to keep beating to match the other heart thumping in that chest now mangled with scars, but he knows better. Knows that those who once loved or could have loved Steven Grant Rogers, in a way that might not have been entirely platonic, are forgetting and have forgotten him.

"I haven't exactly been your priority, Buck. Not for a long time," He gets up, hauls himself out of the temporary shelter and revels in the cold drops once more, sliding down his face, showering a hole in him that has become bigger and bigger.

He walks the few steps back to the pavement, not running but not waiting for the person behind him, the one he's loved for almost a century, who he's lost for a majority of that, and who has made it more than abundantly clear the last few months of recovery that he wants nothing to do with Steve.

Steve doesn't expect to be tackled off the other side of the walkway, back hitting the ground, now muddy and not as playful as before, a blur of blue flying over head and suddenly a growling face in his own.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Steve can't breathe, can't even try to think of something to say back because this is more contact he's had with Bucky since before the war and _it's just been so long_.

"You fucking idiot," Bucky snarls, shoulder length hair quickly becoming a sopping mess, already slipping out of a ponytail, chest heaving with unrestrained _anger_. Steve has no idea what's going on, what he's done to make Bucky so mad when he knows he's done nothing but given Bucky space, respected his decision to start his own life without Steve this time around.

"You always have to take everything on yourself without even asking anyone else how they fucking _feel_ about it, always being so goddamn selfless that it's borderline  _selfish_."

And that has Steve seeing red, gasping on a snarl of his own because what is Bucky even saying?

"How the hell am I being selfish? I've given you all the space you've wanted," Steve heaves, chest starting to burn and the rain coming down harder, chilling his veins. "I've been making sure you don't have to deal with me or anything I might come with."

Bucky growls, bionic and flesh hand both gripping Steve's shirt with growing irritation, "Did you ever _once_ ask me how I felt about that?!"

"You made it pretty damn clear," Now Steve is yelling, because he's just so _furious._ It isn't bad enough he has to lose his best friend, the love of his life and try to be happy about it, try to still be _supportive_ about it, try to live normally when all he wants to do some days is never _wake up_ and now Bucky has the nerve to say he's doing all of this as if he _wanted_ to?

"I can take a hint Buck, when you quite literally are screaming at me to _get out_ , flinching from every move I make or by me simply talking anywhere _near_ you. Was I reading into it when you were avoiding me like the plague? Couldn't stand my presence in the room, you fled as fast as you could to get out of it just so you didn't have to see me."

Steve glares up, his eyes hard but he knows also crying out, like a dying star. "I might be dense sometimes but even an idiot like me can get that sorta message. So I stayed outta your way, made it easier for you to get better and not have to worry about me at all."

Bucky is trembling and Steve thinks it's from anger, that he's about to lash out like when only a week into recovery Bucky pinned him to a wall and tried to rip out his throat.

He waits but then Bucky collapses forward like a crumbling city, head hitting Steve's damn near translucent white shirt, and he starts _sobbing_.

Steve freezes and his heart sputters to a stop because he doesn't know what he did or how to fix this. Making Bucky angry is one thing but doing something as despicable as making him _cry_ , after all he's suffered because of Steve's inability to save his friend, to reach for that hand, to be a fraction faster with his useless enhanced body, always _failing_ him.

Steve feels his own eyes starting to water and it has nothing to do with the chilling drops of rain bombarding his face. He tries to sit up and Bucky still continues to shake in his lap, sobs rattling Steve's own bones.

He's never felt so helpless, so vile, so horrified and disgusted with himself.

"Buck," He sounds desperate, scared, and small in ways that are impossible. "Buck, please look at me, what did I do? Please tell me what I did."

He's faintly surprised at how weak he sounds, how his voice is so small and shaky that it doesn't seem appropriate for someone whose also known as Captain America but honestly? Right now, he couldn't begin to give less of a fuck because Bucky is still _crying_.

 "Bucky please," His own eyes are letting loose, warm paths flowing down his cheeks but he doesn't care, he's reaching for Bucky's face, lifting his head and not giving a fuck that this is the first time he's been so close to Bucky, able to touch him at _all_.

When Bucky meets his eyes Steve could tell you the exact moment his heart shatters. Those frosted eyes are bubbling with tears, warm and streaming, catching on Steve's thumbs and slithering right past. He looks fragile and in need of something that Steve isn't sure he's allowed to give.

What Bucky says next steals his breath.

"Oh Stevie," Breathed like a prayer on a cold winter's night, filled with such fractured longing, whispered through the heavy rain like a secret. "When did you become so broken?"

Steve can't begin to process anything, any of this because no, _no_.

But then Bucky is bringing his face forward, pulling Steve's face into his collarbone, resting his head atop his own wet locks like he used too when he was sick, wrapping him up in arms bigger and stronger but no less gentle.

He's rocked subtly, with such painful care, as if Steve is something worth protecting and keeping safe, like a jewel found amongst the trash, a gem hidden under layers of filth.

He can't help but break.

Bucky holds him close and continues to speak despite Steve's quiet gasps, tears coming faster, arms coming to circle Bucky, hands scrabbling for purchase in the back of his jacket, begging for him to _stay, please God, please don't leave me_.

"You've been trying so hard not to be a burden, huh? You stupid punk, you've been drownin' this whole time and I thought you just wanted nothin' to do with me no more."

Steve spares a breath, quick and heated and filled with agony. "God, never Buck, _never_."

"I know, I know. We were both just being idiots, readin' things that weren't even there, getting lost." Steve feels Bucky tighten his grip, ignores the rain making them shiver, only feels Bucky inhale deeply against his hair, mumbling some more.

"Was just so scared, Steve. Was so scared of hurting you, didn't want you near me when I was no different from a monster."

Steve makes a sound of protest, sharp and pulls his head back just enough to look up, to press his forehead to Bucky's and stare at him with eyes filled with an all too familiar intensity, itching for a fight.

"You weren't a monster. Didn't care what you were Buck, or who you wanted to be," His voice hitches and he bites his lip quickly, trying to stifle the hiccup. "Just wanted to be by your side 's all, just wanted to be in your life even if you didn't want me in your sights."

Bucky's eyes flutter and Steve presses closer, sniffling and he's all to aware of how tight they're clinging to one another when Bucky growls, dark and possessive.

"You'll always be in my sights," His eyes flash dangerously but Steve only feels at ease, always so at ease with Bucky. "Ain't letting you go no more, you hear me? No more being alone for _both_ of us, okay?"

His voice is watery, rolling with emotions and resembling tidal waves during a tsunami. Bucky's eyes shine, but not with tears though they still fall, his lips quirking in a smile that begs to be mirrored.

So Steve does, gives a small, pathetic little thing, weighed down with doubt, of the possibility this is all a dream, that Steve fell asleep on the grassy patch and will wake up alone again, _always alone_.

Forgotten still.

Bucky's hands, one cool and the other approaching the same temperature due to the cold rain still showering them, frame Steve's face and both thumbs stroke over his cheeks, Bucky looking at him as if he is all Bucky wants.

Steve can't help it, breathes out a small noise, a whimper caught in his throat and bleeding out like a whine.

He watches Bucky's smile fall and his eyes start to burn like ice blue colored charcoal, hot and all consuming. Steve feels his body tremble and then lips are on his.

Bucky's mouth, Steve notes dazedly, is sinfully hot and wet, giving and offering mysterious and wonderful things. Steve takes the chance like a dying man grasping at his first offering of sustenance, delving deep and twisting tongues, tasting Bucky and skin growing hot and for once feeling like it actually _fits_.

Bucky makes a sound, melodic and dirty at the same time, filling up Steve's chest, making his heart grow and consume his entire being with warmth once thought gone.

Steve loses track of the minutes, everything around him, even the rain washing them clean, and only focuses on Bucky.

Bucky groans, breathy and sticking to Steve's lips, and Steve tries to hoard them like a dragon does treasure. Bucky sighs in content, licking at Steve's own tongue, consuming him with a skill and talent that doesn't fail to make Steve's lungs seize up.

Eventually Steve pulls away first, chest heaving, lips no doubt swollen from passionate kisses stolen by a desperate man. Steve is no different, when he sees the number he did to Bucky's lips, puffy and ruby red, spit slick and begging for more punishment that Steve is all the more willing to dish out.

"Damn, Stevie." Bucky breathes out first, drunkenly, and Steve can't help it, he laughs.

It's deep, gut wrenching and nearly painful because it's been so long since he's laughed with his whole body, feeling more comfortable in his skin then he has been in _years_.

And when he gets a hold of himself, it's still raining profusely but with an air of giddiness about it, Bucky still in his lap, _grinning at him_.

Steve loses his train of thought. That beautiful smile, roguish and still containing that charm that could enchant anyone, turned on him and he is just as much a sucker for it as anyone else. He continues to stare while Bucky simply breathes out, speaking with reverence.

"Fuckin' gorgeous," His right hand, both arms having wrapped around Steve's neck, comes to trail over his lips, leaving a tingling sensation in it's wake.

Steve feels his cheeks heat up, hoping the rain is helping to cool the burn but if the way Bucky's eyes shine even more and his grin grows a tad wider, he's pretty sure it doesn't.

Bucky leans down for another kiss, this time soft and unassuming but containing a swell of sweetness that has Steve's soul singing.

"C'mon, let's get you outta those clothes." Bucky says with a playful smile and with a warmth that has Steve thinking of every time he's seen that smile.

The answer is not enough.

He takes the hand Bucky offers once he gets out of Steve's lap and stands, grabbing the poor umbrella that was thrown to the side on his way up.

Steve pops it open once more, shielding Bucky and himself poorly, his added bulk making the umbrella seem all too small when faced with two super soldiers.

"Sure was easier when you came up to my hip." Bucky mutters, wrapping an arm around Steve, tugging them together and letting them fit better under their bright blue cover.

"Hey," Steve protests, leaning into the arm, body humming it's happiness, one of Steve's own arms snaking it's way around Bucky's shoulders. "I was at least up to your collarbone."

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky says smoothly, leaning his head against Steve's shoulder as they make their way back to the tower.

"Mm, this is good too." He squeezes Steve pointedly, saying so many things without even trying and this is something Steve has missed _so much_.

Steve doesn't say anything for a bit. Them making their way through surprisingly vacant like New York streets, as if everyone would rather hide inside instead of seeing what the rain can do for them.

Bucky just sighs in content once more, making Steve glow, even if he can't see the sappy look he must have on his face.

Once they're inside, elevator ride passed with not so discreet glances and small smiles, they make it to Steve's floor and change into warm clothes.

Steve is just finishing toweling his hair when arms snake around his torso and a face nuzzles between his shoulder blades.

"Couldn't stay away, huh?" Steve teases, removing the towel and huffing slightly when his bangs fall onto his forehead.

"I've kept my distance ever since I was twelve, pal. Now that I've got the go ahead I'm gonna be glued to your hip." Bucky hums into his back, the thin black shirt doing nothing to stop the warm puff of air from Bucky's mouth.

Steve freezes, voice hushed and in awe, "Twelve?"

Bucky stiffens only just and nods timidly, mumbling further into Steve's spine, as if the words will seep into his skin.

"Ever since I met you and your loud mouth I always felt this _something_. Never really knew until we were twelve and you were sick again, a real big shocker, and I came over and was tellin' you a story and you just _laughed_. " Steve feels Bucky's smile, can picture his eyes, warm and half lidded with memories Steve never thought he'd get back.

"It was like watchin' fireworks, just so bright and I couldn't get enough. My chest just kept flippin' until you stopped and I _knew_ , Steve, I just _knew_."

Steve stares down at the towel in his hands, mouth curving up in a smile.

"Remember when we were thirteen and you punched Bobby O'Reilly? Right in the mouth after math, when you found out he kicked me in the chest so hard I had an asthma attack and was landed in the nurses office? He lost a tooth and you had blood on your knuckles and were seething so much unholy rage for a kid and I just remember being breathless and my heart not being able to stop skippin' beats."

"Shoulda figured me fightin' for your honor would get you hot, Rogers." Bucky huffs, coy, and then he's turning Steve around, taking the towel out of his hands and leaning up for a kiss.

Steve goes easy enough. It's a delicate thing, morphing into something patient and timeless, involving tongue but languid and lazy. Steve hums when Bucky pulls away, but not far, both of them sharing the same air.

"Never gonna get tired of that." Bucky sighs softly, and Steve can only nod in a daze, causing Bucky to let out a chuckle, dragging him to the living room.

They settle on the couch, Steve snuggling into Bucky's chest and Bucky more than happy to wrap his arms around Steve, head resting atop his.

Something's playing on the television but it's mostly for noise, Steve is dozing and Bucky knows it, must feel how his body is becoming more pliant, lying limp.

"Never gonna let you go Stevie, you hear me? I said it before and I'll say it again," There's steel in the timbre of his voice, strong and uncompromising. Steve suppresses a shiver and buries his face further into that muscled chest, listening to that beautiful heart.

"No one can take you away from me," Bucky's arms squeeze him and Steve might start purring in a moment, the conviction in his voice setting ancient insecurities at ease in a moment. God, Bucky is _amazing_. "Love you too much to ever leave you, punk. I'll always come back for you, _to you_."

Steve breathes, and for once his body feels truly like his own. For once he feels like he can truly continue to fight, if only to keep this man safe and at his side, to continue on if only just to see Bucky smile at him one more time.

"I love you too, Buck," Steve mumbles into that heart that somehow yearns for him, that somehow loves _Steve Rogers_ of all people. "You're my everything. World ain't worth nothin' without you in it."

His words slur, and Steve knows that's okay because Bucky understands. Always knows what Steve means and what Steve is saying even if he doesn't know himself. Bucky has always been able to see through Steve, know things that would only show in a passing gleam in his eye but Bucky always noticed. Eyes sharper than any bird, even before he became a marksmen, before he knew how to hold a rifle and take a near impossible shot. He's always known what Steve needs and how to help him without even speaking a word. Steve likes to think maybe, at some point, he's done _at least_ half of what Bucky's done for him, has helped Bucky in some way.

He feels Bucky's breath hitch and when he answers Steve, voice curled, sweet and pressed to his skull, he knows Bucky believes him.

"Same here, Stevie," A kiss pressed to the crown of his head like a blessing, like a promise. "Same here."

And Steve falls asleep just like that.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked!
> 
> Good Night/Morning <3


End file.
